


Sideways, In Reverse

by philomel



Category: Leverage RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pure PWP, post-Christian's birthday gig at Dante’s in Portland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sideways, In Reverse

It's a little bit backwards, being pushed forward on your knees. Then hands. Like a girl.

Christian never expected to be offering himself up like this. But whatever expectations you have, tequila will eat up like lye. He should know better by now but, truth be told, he likes the way it can upend him. It keeps him from taking life for granted.

It keeps him from freaking out about being touched in places he's never been touched before. Or, at least, places he's never been touched before by a guy. The fire in his belly burns him clean of any care. All that matters is _this_ , yes, more of this.

Aldis's thumb traces the line from Christian's tailbone down between his legs. It's a light touch, stirring the hairs on Christian's body, making him shiver and curse. Aldis kneads a knuckle into the space behind Christian's balls and Christian bites his tongue and curses again.

 _Just get on with it_ , Christian is tempted to say. But he's not sure what Aldis plans to do. And sometimes half the fun of things is the waiting. And then there's the sound of kissing — wet, like too much tongue and saliva — and Christian gets distracted. He turns his head, eyes straining to see, and hurting a bit in the process. But then there's a finger stroking down his ass again. It's cold and slick and slipping knuckle-first between his cheeks. Then another knuckle slips in too, spreading him, warming him just as cool air hits his hole, and then. And then stroking. _Oh god._ The soft pad of the fingertip pressing, then the smooth-hard slope of the fingernail scratching. There's a callus catching on his skin. And he's pretty sure Aldis doesn't have calluses like that, if at all.

And then it's gone. And Christian whines. Honest to God, he doesn't mean to. But he does. And he doesn't care. Because he needs more of that. More—

Hot breath and moist air and wet heat and. That's better. That's even better.

Christian drops his head and pushes back toward the tongue that's teasing him, tickling up the back of his balls and drawing circles around his hole. Slow, lazy circles. Whip-quick circles. Darting in, and _oh_.

He sways and his hair swings against his face, curtaining him. But he can still see the shift from light to dark, even behind closed lids. He opens his eyes, blinks through strands of sweat-matted hair.

At first, it's the glint of light on glass. The gold in the bottle. Blue jeans and skin. Then he focuses, lifts his head to get a better view of Jensen kneeling in front of him, licking the rim of the tequila bottle. It's perfectly synchronized with Aldis's tongue, and Christian doesn't know if Aldis is following Jensen's lead or if Jensen just somehow knows. Just knows exactly what it is that's driving Christian crazy — just how and just how much. Jensen stares back at Christian, and it's too steady, too unwavering when everything Christian sees and feels is pulling him apart.

Jensen presses the mouth of the bottle to Christian's mouth, cups his hand under Christian’s chin and lifts, tips the bottle just enough to splash tequila against his lips, a tingle and burn over his tongue. Barely enough to swallow. Then he lowers the bottle slightly until the alcohol runs back down and he twists it, corkscrews the rim of the bottle past Christian's lips. Christian sticks his tongue into the bottle, curling against the glass, and looks up to see Jensen's teeth biting hard into his lower lip. Jensen sets it aside and tugs at his belt buckle. It's the serpentine swish of leather and the dull clang of metal and teeth opening slowly, slowly in an arc, and Christian knows what's coming. But Aldis is fucking him with his tongue, and Christian has never had that before. And he's never had Jensen in his mouth before. And he wants it. He wants it all.

It's not like porn. It's not a crescendo of _yes_ es and greed and gluttony.

But it’s not bad either.

It takes some getting used to. He's had come in his mouth before; he's tasted his own. But the trail of precome on Christian's tongue as Jensen guides himself into Christian's open mouth — it overwhelms him, blots out the taste of tequila, makes his head spin in a whole new way. He's not sure if he wants more of that, so he takes Jensen in, tastes his skin. Salt and musk. Slick, silky skin on skin. It's so familiar but new. Misplaced, misdirected. He takes more in. Thick, heavy, too warm. He gags, pulls back, goes back for more when Jensen keens.

Because that sound goes straight to Christian’s cock.

The burn in his belly is everywhere now. It's spread faster than wildfire. On his lips, rubbing raw, pulled taut around Jensen's cock. Up and down his arms, straining to hold him up. His thighs too. His palms and knees prickling against the rough pile of the carpet. The weight of his jeans around his shins, the swelter of it like a kicked blanket that won't untangle from his legs. His toes curling in his boots, digging hard into the seams of the soles.

And then the body heat of Aldis closes in on him from behind. Thighs against his thighs, knees between his knees. A thumb stroking his hip, dipping into the crease.

Aldis asks first. And Christian locks eyes with Jensen, as if Aldis was asking him instead.

Jensen touches Christian's cheek, tracing the bulge of his own cock underneath the thick skin and stubble. He pulls out slowly, traces the head of his cock over the center of Christian’s lip and down his chin. He looks past Christian, toward Aldis, looks back down. And Christian nods.

They go slow. Too slow, too much. Not enough.

They fill him. Jensen in his mouth, deeper this time. Christian swivels his head from side to side to feel all the different ways it fits him. Not right but right, somehow. Aldis stretches him wide, pushes in and in, gets pushed out a little, and pushes in again. It's foreign and feels like a violation, until it doesn't.

Aldis pulls out until the crown of his cock catches around the rim, caught inside. His hands cover Christian's hips, curl around him and angle him up, and he thrusts all the way in. There's a spark-flit, a flint-catching feel of promised fire. Out and in and there it is again, prickling heat like starlight down the center of his belly. He raises his hips as Aldis pulls out again. _More_ , he thinks, and moans around Jensen's cock when he gets it.

He tries not to bite down when Aldis hits his prostate again. But he swallows involuntarily, his tongue curving up, pushing its fat base up into Jensen's cock, crowding his mouth even more than it was. And then Jensen's coming, and Christian's mouth fills with it. He swallows deliberately as Jensen pulses inside of him. It chokes him and he opens his mouth to it, lets it dribble down his chin, trickle down his neck. Christian moves his head back, lets Jensen's cock fall free, a string of come between the slit and Christian's bottom lip. He dips his head and takes Jensen's sac into his mouth, making Jensen cry out. He pulls back, leaving a slick sheen of Jensen's own come on his balls, catching and clinging to the coarse, curling hairs.

It's a strange view, but Christian shutters his eyes against it as Aldis hits that spot again. He pushes back to meet Aldis as he grinds into him, twisting his hips in counterpoint to the movement of Aldis's.

He wonders if he could come like this, thinks maybe he could, would like to find out.

But then he feels sweat-slippery skin sticking and sliding past his wrists, and watches Jensen slither underneath him. Christian shoves his arms wider to makes room for Jensen, brushburning his palms, praying to stay upright as he does so. Praying to stay upright as Jensen's tongue flicks over the head of his cock.

It's awkward, has to be. Jensen on his back. Christian's thighs around his head, moving, moving, moving to meet Aldis on each thrust, moving to find Jensen's tongue and lips. It seems like all tease, when he wants Jensen to swallow him whole. But he doesn't know if he could take it. He doesn't know if Jensen could take it. He doesn't know anything but _yes_ and _more_. And in his head it is starting to sound like porn, but they're just familiar words that barely mean anything when this is so unfamiliar.

Except for the primal part of him that keeps repeating that _yes_.

His hair sticks to his forehead and he shakes it loose, watches it trail over Jensen's skin beneath him, dripping sweat onto him. Jensen's stomach ripples with a shiver, goosebumps rising up all over. Christian tucks his chin into his chest and watches Jensen upside down just as he stretches up to slide the flat length of his tongue right down the shaft of Christian's cock, from tip to base. And then lower. Jensen mouths Christian's balls, tongue playing over the base of his cock, and Christian feels that burn flare up, blue and bright down the center of him. Everything hits at once. Aldis moans as Jensen slips his tongue behind Christian's balls, slips inside Christian alongside Aldis.

It's too much. Aldis's thrusts go wild, a hard-fast burn going straight to Christian’s core. Too much, _too much_. Christian groans and it rattles his chest, shakes behind his eyelids, white starbursts and heat shooting up his belly, chest, neck. He comes, thinks Aldis is coming too. Distantly, he feels Jensen's mouth and teeth on the inside of his thigh. But it's all skin on skin on skin. Indistinguishable. Fever-hazed.

When they break apart, he falls forward, still shaking.

* * *

When Christian wakes up, the sun's coming through the blinds in harsh stripes, bleaching everything a bleary white.

He's on the floor and there's a bottle of tequila by his head. He's been here before. Except, that's no girl in his shower, humming under the running water. No girl harmonizing, either, voice echoing against the tiles. But he stumbles to the bathroom anyway to chase the sour taste of alcohol with a little water and the new-old taste of skin.

**Author's Note:**

> • Beta: zelda-zee.
> 
> • Title stolen from the Mark Lanegan song of the same name (now with added comma).


End file.
